


Know my pain

by Heimiika



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angry russian son appears in second chapter, But it gets better I promise, Eventual Romance, Lots of Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Build, VictUuri, Victor Nikiforov x Yuuri Katsuki, Victor has long hair, Victor is 20, Victuri, Victuuri Week 2017, Yurio is 14, Yuuri and Victor are there to cure each other, Yuuri is 19, Yuuri is Suicidal, will add more tags later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9646856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heimiika/pseuds/Heimiika
Summary: Now that I’ve lived your life, known your pain, how could I ever let you go?One day, Victor and Yuuri wake up in each other's bodies. What they learn is that there is so much to love, so much to live.





	1. Who are you, Katsuki Yuuri?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor wakes up in Yuuri's body.

It was like an approaching avalanche of screeching steel. It rummaged closer, blazing lights at the front, like a meteorite aimed straight at him. _No_ , Victor thought, the ever-nearing, scorching lights flickering in his eyes. _He must live. ___

With that thought, he jolted aside, with what little strength his body still possessed.

 

There was a soft clattering in the distance, a sound familiar from his childhood, which he effortlessly recognized as a train passing by. It wasn't loud or obnoxious like the trains of Moscow or St. Petersburg. Instead, it blended itself into the background, like a stroke in a painting. Grandma's house, he thought. Many summers he'd spent sprawled across the meadow floor, ears buzzing with the rustle of buttercups, insects and the train which passed by every hour. He felt warm as well, as if the sun was on his skin. _But that could not be_ , he thought with amusement. 

He hadn't visited his grandma in years. In twelve years, to be exact. Yet, sometimes, the vivid memories returned to him in his slumber. Perhaps it was so again. He vastly preferred the images running behind his eyelids to the darkness of his room, which would await if he opened his eyes. So, he allowed himself to absorb the dream's sensations before waking would erase them.

But there was a tug in his stomach he could not ignore. Something was horribly wrong.

The warmth felt much too real, humid, slithery and all around him. There were sounds, muffled and unrecognizable. On his skin, instead of the mattress atop his queen-sized bed in St. Petersburg, there was something cool, and very uneven, like rubble. In the air wafted the faintest trace of tar, or something equally burnt and musky. The images of the meadow were now distant, the sense of carefreeness gone, replaced by looming dread. 

_It's alright, I simply have to wake up_ , he thought hopefully. But he had seen nightmares before, many times enough to tell that something was truly off. As if in response to his wish, he felt his body beginning to stir, senses sharpening from the haze of rest. 

Foreign sensations flooded in, like water from the windows of a sunken house. 

There was an ominous pain in his chest, more internal and fluid than the sharp, easily locatable sting in his limbs. A shadow passed over him, blocking out the burning glow of the sunlight. His eyes reacted to the sudden change, fluttering open, and his arms rose up reflexively in defense. Something, or someone, stood over him, but the image was still blurry. It spoke something, in a voice of someone male and of elderly age, but that too was too muffled to make sense of. The figure ducked closer, and Victor found himself being pulled up by the arms to sit. The mysterious man knelt in front of him, steadying him with a grip on both of his shoulders.

 

"What's happening, young man? Are you hurt?"

The words, despite of being understandable, sounded distant, as if they'd been spoken in a foreign language. But just as he had recognized the meaning, he could finally make out the features of the man in front of him. He was old, matching his voice. But most notably, he was foreign - of Asian origin. He wore a concerned frown. 

Victor found himself yelping, attempting to scramble away, but the man steadied him. "Easy!" He said. "You don't look so good. My wife will call you an ambulance. You'll be fine." 

Victor drew in frantic inhales. He was definitely awake by now, the adrenaline rush having shaken off the last of his haziness. However, the sensation of something being terribly out of place, or about to be, remained, and only grew more prevailing. He had a gut-wrenching feeling it had something to do with the steady pain beneath his chest.

"Wh-what happened?" he croaked.

Immediately after, he brought a hand over his mouth in terror. His voice had sounded nothing like him, alien. He wasn't even sure if he himself understood what he'd just said. He wanted to cry.

"Easy, easy!" the old man exclaimed. "Take deep breaths. I and my wife were just driving by, and we noticed you here next to the train tracks in broad daylight. Were you trying to kill yourself, boy? You barely managed to jump out of the way in time!”

The man looked horrified. Victor mirrored the expression. "I... I don't feel so good," he said, not having the energy or will to contribute to the awful conversation. A numbness similar to the recent haze of his slumber was settling in. He sensed it in his growing inability to keep his eyes open. His thoughts twisted and remolded themselves, until nothing coherent remained. The same void claimed the rest of his body, spilling over like ink, until only the dull ache in his chest remained. 

"Help is on the way!" he heard a female voice call.

Then everything went black.

 

There was chatter in the background, unidentifiable, muffled voices, almost like at the ice rink in St. Petersburg. Victor felt warm, embraced in something soft, atop of something with matching, equally pleasant texture. For a moment, he felt content, thinking of his upcoming morning practice. Yakov yelled at him a lot, but he'd learnt that it was his way of showing he cared. He would have to listen to another rant about Georgi's girlfriend, but that was okay too. Victor found his antics funny, as repetitive as they were. It was even funnier when Mila was around, she always had something witty to say in return. Then, he recalled the sound of the train. The images of St. Petersburg vanished into nothing like they'd been made of smoke.

He felt sick to his stomach. 

He realized he was going to throw up.

Automatically, he leaned over the bed, and let the nausea wash over him. Someone stepped closer amidst his ordeal, placing a hand on his shoulder empathetically. As he spoke, Victor recognized the voice from before. The elderly man at the tracks. "Good heavens, I'm glad to see you made it out alright. Although you might still feel sick for a while," he said. He seemed to hesitate. "No wonder after the amount of medicine you ate. The doctors say you attempted to... _overdose._ " 

Victor didn't stir from his position over the edge of the bed. The man withdrew his hand, probably unsettled by his silence. "...E-excuse me?" Victor managed. 

"Ah, you... probably don't remember much. They said memory loss was a likely side-effect."

The man sat beside him, the mattress dipping with his weight. Victor nodded dully at his statement. He wiped his mouth with tissues set nearby, and seated himself against the head of the bed, facing the old man who had been kind enough to care for him. "Thank you so much for your care," he whispered. "It must be a huge inconvenience." He brought his knees to his chest.

The man gave him a warm smile. "Don't worry, boy! I have a son, about your age, but he already moved to Tokyo. Seeing you, I was reminded of him. If something happened to him, I would pray for someone to have the heart to help him." 

Victor returned the smile, but it fell shortly. His eyes widened. "T-Tokyo?!" He sat upright, his heart beating faster. "Excuse me, did I hear right?" 

The man gave him a puzzled look. "Yes, yes," he said, as if it was obvious and Victor was dimwitted for questioning. "We're in Hasetsu right now. Or well, the suburb. The doctor said you're from here as well! We'll drive you home in the morning."

Victor couldn't bring himself to speak. His throat felt dry. The name rung in his head, Hasetsu. _Hasetsu_. Then, images flooded his mind. Pleasant images, of soaring seagulls, sand swirling in seawater, rosy petals covering his sneakers. "Hasetsu," he whispered, as if tasting the word, testing how it sounded. "It's where I live," he found himself saying, involuntarily. He immediately brought a hand to his mouth, startled by the words that had come out on their own accord. Shivers roamed his body at the sound of his voice. He couldn't recognize it as his own.

The older man looked at him, saddened, pitying. "You've been through a lot. I think, you cannot recall everything yet."

 _But I can_ , Victor thought. 

He remembered Yakov, the rink, his apartment, his dog, the apple he ate yesterday. Yet, none of that seemed relevant anymore. Worst of all, other images had mixed in, seeping into his mind like stains. He could tell most of them apart, but some had blended with the experiences of his own, in the most unsettling way. Foreign images, all of them, yet very familiar. Eyes of people he swore he knew, yet couldn't name. 

Then, as he let his mind roam through the images, they turned darker, unstable. He saw a counter, no, his counter, with medicine cans of varying sizes, some of their contents spilled. Medicine for migraines, anxiety, insomnia. He picked up one of them, and recognized it as _temazepam_ , written in complex letters he was surprised to understand. _I often have trouble sleeping_ , he found himself thinking. _So I have to take the medicine._

There was a mirror in the same, dimly lit room. He rose from the sink counter to come face to face with his reflection. What he saw disturbed him deeply. He could still remember his own eyes, he conjured them into his mind with ease, and yet, as he looked at the reflection of a clearly foreign person, he recognized it to be his own. Dark, fierce orbs stared back, rimmed with color a few shades darker than his pale, Asian skin tone. _What a gorgeous detail_ , Victor found himself thinking. The boy in the reflection was roughly his age, maybe a bit younger. He had a slimmer, more delicate build, and disheveled black hair which had grown out of its haircut. He looked incredibly fragile and strong at the same time. _That is me, Victor found himself thinking again_ , almost in awe. _Or, whoever it is whose body I’m in._

"Um... Katsuki? Are you alright?"

Victor stirred. He must've spaced off for longer than appropriate. "Excuse me?" 

"Ah, you just seemed so lost in thought, I meant to say-"

"Sorry, I mean, what did you call me? What's my name?" he cut in, eyes wide. All of this was too much information to digest in such a short time.

The man's expression fell into something uncomfortable. He met Victor's gaze like he was something contagious, to be kept at an arm's length. "Katsuki Yuuri," he replied slowly. 

Victor's brows furrowed in confusion.

The man sighed. His features softened. "I guess you got yourself knocked out harder than I thought," he laughed. "Stay still, I'll fetch you something.” 

Victor nodded dumbly, and watched the man leave. 

As soon as the man was out of sight, Victor brought his hands to his front. He stared at them, mesmerized, angling them, curling and uncurling fingers. He admired the exotic skin tone, the stubby nails that were trimmed much shorter than his own. He admired how the tone of the skin was darker around the root of the nails, just as it had been around the rims of his eyes in the mirror reflection. 

“Katsuki Yuuri,” he whispered, “Why am I in your body?” 

He brought the hands into his hair, tracing them along the warm scalp, gripping softly at the strands, feeling the texture. _Wow_ , he thought. _His hair is so thick._

He lowered the hands, allowing his fingers to feel against the face, to get familiar with its shapes. A shaky breath escaped his lips, in amazement. _His skin is so smooth_ , he thought. _And his eyebrows are just as thick as his hair!_ He brought his fingers to his eyelids, and fluttered his lashes against them gently. A grin curled on his lips. His heart fluttered pleasantly.

_Who are you, Katsuki Yuuri?_

There were steps behind the corner of the door. Victor immediately snapped out of what he was doing. “Heh, you might want to look at these,” the old man chuckled, entering the room with a few magazines in hand. There was an odd half-smile tugging at his lips. As soon as the magazines were handed to Victor, he snatched them eagerly. “Thank you,” he nodded at the man, and turned his attention to the magazines. He shuffled through the covers with great curiosity. They were all sports magazines, recent numbers, and-

_It was him. It was Katsuki Yuuri. On the cover._

Victor’s heart almost jumped to his throat. He did a double check. Brought the magazine closer to his face. His eyes roamed wildly all over the image. The magazines were specific to the Saga prefecture, and judging by the cover captions, Katsuki Yuuri was a figure skater. He had won a local competition and was seen as a promising competitor for the Nationals. He was nineteen years old.

The old man looked incredibly amused, but the expression was shadowed by concern. “I recognized you as the medics treated you. I wasn’t sure at first, but they confirmed it.” He scooted closer, and sat next to Victor. A hand on his shoulder, he continued, “Only added to my surprise and worry. None of us wishes any bad for you!” 

Victor turned his gaze to the old man, bewildered. He opened his mouth several times to say something, anything, but the words fled him. _Katsuki Yuuri is mesmerizing_ , he wanted to blurt out. _And he might just be the most attractive person I’ve seen in my life._

Instead, eyes gleaming, he said, “Tell me everything you know about Katsuki Yuuri.”

He had yet to see the man look so disturbed.

 

Before dozing off, Victor read the articles covering Katsuki Yuuri over and over, to the point where he had lost count. The old man didn’t have much to tell about him, but that had come as no surprise. When it came to magazine articles like that, all they covered was competition overviews, rankings and some superficial facts. Victor would know, having been interviewed constantly and written about for the past six years. 

Victor had been intrigued to find out that the mysterious Katsuki Yuuri lived in an _onsen guesthouse_ owned by his family. Strangely enough, Victor had soon after recalled the customs of visiting an onsen, as well as brief snapshots from what he assumed was none other than the Katsuki family onsen. However, one sentence in one of the longer interviews had stuck with him the most. In fact, after he had read it, he had found it hard to think about anything else.

_Katsuki Yuuri considers the Russian star Victor Nikiforov to be his inspiration, it had read._

Victor had almost exploded.

The mysterious and charming Katsuki Yuuri _knew_ of him. And not only knew, but was downright _inspired_ by him. He had been following his career.

Correction – Victor had most definitely exploded. 

 

During the night, Victor woke once. He jolted up, looking around frantically. He recognized the room as the one he’d fallen asleep at, the house of the old man and his wife, and relaxed visibly. He thought about it for a while – what if he had woken up in his room in St. Petersburg? What if everything until now had never been? Would he have been relieved?

 _No_ , he thought, recalling the way his body, Yuuri’s body, had ached at the train tracks. He recalled the ache beneath his chest. It had been like a black hole, devouring him from the inside. When he thought about it now, he recognized that the pain had felt oddly unnatural, out of place. Like there had been poison in his body.

But now, he already knew. It was no mystery anymore. 

Victor couldn’t remember much of the encounter with the medics, or anything before that, aside from throwing up. A lot. He had probably passed out, or fallen asleep, shortly after. The next time he’d woken up, well, he’d thrown up again. But it had been at the old man’s house. Right now, he felt hungover. There was a dull throbbing in his head, and all of his limbs ached. He also felt the faintest trace of it, under his ribs. He swallowed, slightly unsettled, but no longer afraid. He already felt heaps better. _Yuuri Katsuki was safe._

But _why_ , that puzzled him to no end. Until now, he had been in no position to act or think on his own accord, and he realized he had so many questions. He couldn’t just spend time in another person’s body, their life, and not be concerned, curious. Especially when it was someone like Yuuri, he added in his mind. He was briefly reminded of the eyes staring back at him in the bathroom mirror. 

_I wonder what you look like skating. Or what your laugh sounds like, when it’s all genuine and out of control._

Yuuri’s life seemed fine on the outside. Victor couldn’t access his memories in detail, the images were too smudged, scattered. But from what he had learnt, Yuuri had a family and talent. He was also, undeniably, broken under the surface. Victor felt sorrowful thinking about it – Yuuri had probably hidden his pain behind a smile, who knows for how long. He had looked so bright in the magazine cover earlier, leaving the readers completely oblivious to his reality. He was a strong person.

 _Yuuri, you have so much to live for_ , Victor thought. _If nothing else, live for me. How could I let you go now that I know your pain?_

Victor rolled onto his back, staring at the blank ceiling. Just barely above a whisper, he said, “Please, God, give me Yuuri’s time.”

“If just for a little longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> This is the first fanfic I've written since I was 14. *cringes at the memory*  
> I have four hopes for this fic, bearing in mind that writing is a very casual hobby for me:  
> 1\. I hope I've improved since I was 14.  
> 2\. I hope this will give me motivation to write more regularly  
> 3\. I hope this will help me write better (love to everyone who bothers to give feedback!!)  
> 4\. I hope I'll make some YOI crazed friends so we can be crazy together. Hit me up on my tumblr @heimiika


	2. This has to be a dream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri wakes up in Victor's body, and is convinced that he is only dreaming, already dead by the train tracks.
> 
> But we all know how that went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for mistakes, I wrote this in one go.  
> Atm I'm ridiculously tired while posting this.  
> I'll correct everything later~

There was something warm, and incredibly wet on his hand. The sensation was accompanied by the sound of rather audible breathing, and a soft tug further down his body. It was, however, the smell, at which he came to recognition. The smell of a dog.

"Vicchan, let me sleep," Yuuri groaned, chanting the name of his family dog.

It was of no use. There was eager sniffing on his face, followed by a lick aimed precisely at his nostrils. 

"Vicchan!" he exclaimed, the commanding tone in his voice rendered meaningless by the grin on his lips. When it came to dogs, his will simply melted away. He scrunched up his face as more licks came, the prospect of saliva in his eyes rather unappealing. Yuuri brought up his hands to scratch the little rascal behind the neck, eyes still firmly shut in case the dog changed its mind about licking his nose. "Vicchan, did mom send you to wake m-"

Yuuri froze. His face paled in horror.

Just three months ago, he had buried Vicchan. His shrine was on the second floor of his house.

Then it all came back to him. The train. _He was supposed to have been hit by the train_.

Memories of the past months leading up to the day at the tracks swarmed behind his eyelids, almost too painful to witness. He saw his new coach, at the rink near Tokyo. Her face had been distorted by the migraine, her speech twisted, indistinguishable. He saw the ice, how he had stared at it until it had seemed to pulsate in rhythm with the throbbing in his head. He heard again the questioning tones of his family, the faith which had slowly leaked out of them. Behind their expressions had been worry, pity, until they had no longer even bothered to hide it.

_Yuuri, your health is more important. Please, please, stop doing this to yourself._

_But mom_ , Yuuri had thought, _you don't understand. If I stop now, I'll have nothing._

At some point, his body had simply become too weak to deliver to everyone's expectations. The first time he'd noticed, he'd been sixteen. Sleep had no longer come as easy to him. In turn, it had become difficult for him to perform consistently in school; he found himself skipping morning lessons more frequently than not, to catch up on rest. As an athlete, it was something he simply couldn't compromise on. But from there on out, his problems had only spiraled downward. 

He couldn't recall anything from the past few days. It was like a mirage in the desert horizon, gone in a blink. It could've been there, but one could not know for sure. What was obvious about those days, however, was that they had lead him to take his life. Shivers tremored his body at the grim thought, yet it was all too familiar to be startled by. He'd been obsessed with it for some time now.

_I should be dead_ , he thought.

Yet, he was not, and it wrenched his gut. A new urgency took hold of his body. Had someone found me, rescued me? His eyes shot open as he jolted forward. The dog on his lap wasn’t pleased by the sudden, forceful movement, and scooted off with a huff of disapproval. 

Yuuri watched it in absolute horror.

It was massive, likely half his own size. A giant poodle with unsettling resemblance to a _bear_. It jumped off the bed with ease, the bed which was luxurious and broad and clearly _not his_ , and wagged its tail contently as it tip toed out of the open door. Yuuri's eyes traced its every movement until it was gone. He heard its steps echo from further away behind the doorframe, followed with a soft thud as it found something, most likely a piece of furniture, to jump and settle onto.

Yuuri wanted to scream.

He kicked the covers away from his body in a frenzy, like they were something disgusting and to be disposed of. He scrambled out of the bed, desperate to get away, banging his head on the floor as he did. The blow didn’t daze him enough to stop him, and he sprung forward, vision shaky and doubled from the hit to his head, arms flying every which way, as if they could offer him extra speed. He sprinted out of the room like carried on an unseen gust of wind. 

In his panic, the plie of clothes on the floor went unnoticed to him. His foot got stuck and he fell over, pelvis first against the dusty lament floor.

Hands pulling on his hair, chin pressed to his chest and teeth gritting, he endured the wave of pain washing over him in the aftermath of his stumble. His toes curled and he squirmed in place for a while, until it became easier to bear. Slowly, the pain subdued, and he could relax. He was left lying there, sprawled across the floor in a fetal position, mind blank.

_I don’t know where I am_ , he thought. _I’m in a foreign house, in which someone probably lives, and that was their dog. Maybe I was rescued?_

He rose up on his elbows with caution, head sweeping from side to side as he took in his surroundings. What he saw unsettled him to the core, planted a seedling of dread into him. It was an apartment, modern, expensive-looking. However, it was dominated by a forbidding sense of hollowness, like there were a ghastly pair of eyes prying into his body from every wall, a never-leaving presence.

Every wall was bare, gaping like an eternal fall into void. In the living room which opened before him stood only a lone sofa, on which the dog rested, and a TV on the floor. Everything was covered in a layer of dust. The corners of the apartment were practically _buried_ in it, hidden under thick, cloudy accumulations. Until that moment Yuuri hadn’t been aware that the apartment was cold as well. Shivers roamed his body. _Does anyone even live here?_

Then, his observations were brought to an abrupt halt. A long, silvery strand of hair had fallen over the brink of his nose, and he stared at it, absolutely frozen. Slowly, he brought a hand over his shoulder to feel at the cascade of slippery hair running down, tangling around his waist and armpits. His face paled into an ill shade of white.

This time, he screamed.

 

Yuuri sat on the hallway, knees brought firmly against his chest. He stared at his bare, pale toes, spreading them apart, curling them, and watching the bones moving under the creamy skin of his feet. The huge dog, whose name he had ominously recalled to be Makkachin, had come to rest beside him. The sun had already risen high, and shone down on them, filtered by the dirt on the window and the thin, plain curtains draped over it. The feet offered a comforting sight in that they were bruised and discolored by lifelong skating, just as Yuuri’s had been. He reached to scratch Makkachin behind the ears.

After his scream, he’d been overwhelmed by panic, ended up nauseous, and thrown up in the toilet. A glass container was still set by his side, in case the urge returned. The second time he had screamed was when he’d seen his reflection in the toilet mirror. It had felt and looked so real, he hadn’t had a clue what to think, or what to do. So, he had broken into tears, into ugly sobbing, and crumbled to the floor. 

Later on he had managed to crawl out of the toilet and find a bowl for himself, and now sat beside the door frame, leaning against the wall. He was exhausted, and could no longer bring himself to cry, or scream, or throw up, even if he might have desired to. The events of the past hours buzzed in his mind, and he could only let them. 

“It’s funny,” he said after a stretch of silence, no longer startled by the voice which he recognized from the countless interviews he’d watched, “I used to be obsessive about Victor Nikiforov. He resembled so many things to me. I thought I was familiar with him, enjoyed watching him from afar, on screens, magazines. And now that I’m in his place, in whatever dream this is that I’m having, it’s not how I imagined. I’m terrified.”

Makkachin huffed in response and wagged its tail. Yuuri chuckled, and gave it another scratch on the back of the neck. 

“This all feels so real, it’s absurd,” he said, bitterness seeping into his voice.   
He was supposed to be _dead_. Yet, he was stuck in some nonexistent dream, almost in an insult to his decision to take his own life. He’d heard of people experiencing dreams of varying sorts on the brink of death, when the body is lifeless except for vital organs like the heart and the brain. Dreams which occurred on the delicate, fleeting fragment of time before blood stilled in the veins, before what had once been alive slowly diminished.

This, truly, was the biggest insult of all. His real body was probably lying somewhere on the rubble, a gruesome disfiguration, sun scorching on caked, splattered blood. He was probably milliseconds away from dying. His heart had probably already given out its last pump of blood. His brain must have been slowly suffocating, trying uselessly to harvest oxygen from the blood which no longer moved – and while it was at it, conjuring up this _mockery_ of Yuuri’s entire, short life.

Of all the things he could be experiencing in this limitless world of dreams, his final farewell to life, _this_ is what he was given? Instead of an opportunity to see his family for one last time, or to be given the pleasure of relief that maybe his life had held some purpose, perhaps some revelation, he was given a satire. He was put into the body of his inspiration, the man who represented all the hours of sweat, anguish and sacrifices he had offered in pursuit of skating, only to shove it at his face that he _never quite got there._

Worst of all, this was not even glorious. This wasn’t Victor Nikiforov on the pedestal ready to receive another gold medal, or skating a record-shattering masterpiece. This was Victor Nikiforov in some lonely, cold, bare apartment, a mockery of his name and Yuuri’s admiration for him.

Yuuri clenched his fists. His chest was suddenly boiling, and he erupted into venomous laughter. His eyes began watering from the outburst, flooding over and streaming down his face. What had sounded like laugher a moment ago now resembled sobs, and he realized he was crying again.

Makkachin perked up at the sound, and tugged its head into Yuuri’s lap with a whine. Yuuri shifted closer to the dog and embraced it gently, the movement oddly reflexive. 

“I… miss my family. I miss everyone back home,” he managed, before succumbing into another fit of sobbing. He placed his head against Makkachin’s fur, and allowed himself to be shaken by the sorrow, until it seemed to have seeped down into the marrow of his bones. 

 

It wasn’t until Yuuri stirred that he realized he’d fallen asleep. It hadn’t been too long, as the sunrays still poured in from the window on the opposite wall. He was quick to recognize what had woken him, the obnoxiously cheery and loud ringing of a phone echoing through the hollow apartment. For some reason, he recognized the ringtone, although he swore he’d never heard anything alike before. He didn’t question it, though, as the hurry to answer the phone, or to at least know who was calling, pressed the heaviest on his mind. 

With an effort he got up and followed the sound, which lead to the bedroom floor right at the root of the night stand. The phone must’ve fallen off during his surge of panic earlier in the morning, he figured. He picked up the device to see its screen lit with a picture of an extraordinarily grumpy man in a Hawaii shirt, and batches of Cyrillic letters. He squinted at the screen, when suddenly the meaning of the letters became clear to him. _Yakov <3._ Yuuri felt immensely confused by what he’d just read.

Hesitantly, he swiped the green answer-button. 

_“VITYA!”_

The phone’s volume was loud enough to cause a heart attack. Yuuri dropped the device, startled breathless, but was quick to pick it up again.

“ _O-ohayou goz-zaimasu,_ ” he whimpered. He had no clue where to go with this.

There was no reply on the end of the line. Yuuri swallowed down hard. _Maybe I should just hang up?_

After a long stretch of silence the man, _Yakov_ , grumbled. “You _rascal_ , have you been drinking again!? What is this nonsense?!” His voice was seething with fury. “Is this a joke to you?! You missed morning practice!”

Yuuri froze. _All of this is supposed to be a dream. Does the Victor in his dream have actual responsibilities as well?_

“ _S-Sumimasen deshita! Honto-_ “

“VITYA! Is this a joke to you?! Stop with the nonsense and speak to me in _clear Russian_ so that I understand, you half-wit!” the man billowed. He murmured something very aggressive under his breath.

Yuuri’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even noticed. The Cyrillic letters on his phone were brought to his mind, and he could have sworn he’d been able to read them. Now that he thought about it, he had understood Yakov on the phone as well, and he had definitely not spoken Japanese. _Maybe if I focus really hard, I will be able to speak with him in Russian_ , he thought, and inhaled deeply. 

“I swear, you can be so arrogant someti-“

“Please forgive me!” Yuuri cut in. _It’s working._ “I was very rude, and I apologize! I had a very stressful morning, I threw up, and I still don’t feel very good. I’m sorry for the inconvenience I caused you. I will try my best to handle these situations better in the future. I’m asking for your forgiveness!”

The end of the line was dead silent. Yuuri frowned, suspecting the man had hung up on him, but the phone call was still active when he checked. “Um... Mr. Yakov?” 

“…Vitya?” the man asked, now speaking uncharacteristically softly. He almost sounded worried. “I think you’re right, you really don’t sound that good. Something is off about you, you’re never this apologetic. I’ll send Yuri off to come stop by your place after practice, da? Take it easy for now.”

“Are you s-sure? A-Alright,” Yuuri replied dumbly, and the phone call came to an end. _Who is Yuri?_ he thought. _Maybe he’d meant me?_

He shook his head dismissively. _This dream is a total joke._

He let the phone fall on the bed next to him, and realized he hadn’t made it after he’d gotten up earlier. He tucked the sheets, blankets and pillows into place with care, and circled around the bed, to the far side of the room where heavy curtains shielded a window. As he opened them, light flooded in. Despite of the bright summer day outside, the glow of it offered Yuuri no warmth. He stared at the view, at the the sea of tiled rooftops, the soft sway of trees rising above sidewalks, the glimmering river in the distance, and found all of it untouchable. Untouchable, like a fleeting memory from the past, an echo – a reminder that the world would continue moving forward without him.

If Yuuri felt any urge to run outside and enjoy the foreign city, he had buried it deep down, along with the fear that perhaps, if he felt the faintest spark of joy now, he would regret everything. This had been his own decision, to leave behind life, and all which accompanied. Even if he wanted to enjoy the little which he had left, he no longer had the right. 

The corners of his eyes gleamed with tears, and he sat on the bed behind him, eyes never leaving the city view.

It was torture, being stuck in this dream of false living, where memories haunted him. He let them flow through his mind, traces of familiar smells, touches, bits of laughter. Then, suddenly, it dawned on him that among his memories some were foreign. Even though he could swear by his name that the memories weren’t his, they held a strong sense of belonging. _Victor’s memories_ , Yuuri realized. Although he was curious, he also felt irritated – in a dream like this, it didn’t matter what Victor’s memories contained. He was imaginary, just like the city view which Yuuri stared at.

At first, Yuuri took great care to focus on his and _his_ memories only, not wanting to risk looking at meaningless imaginary as the collapse of his dream was imminent. However, his thoughts soon drifted, and he found himself wondering about the recent phone call with the peculiar Yakov. It was at that moment that some sort of switch went off in his head, and he gasped at the strangeness of it. _Yuri Plisetsky_ , he realized, mouth agape. _That’s the Yuri he’d been talking about, not me!_

Immediately, his mind supplied him with images of his namesake. He saw him at the ice rink with the man who he recognized as Yakov, saw his skates grinding gracefully against the ice. _Of course!_ Yuuri thought. _Of course it’s Yuri Plisetsky. I remember him from last spring’s Junior World’s. He took gold. He shares the coach and the rink with Victorl._

Yuuri, buried his face in his hands and fell back on the bed. _This dream is way too realistic_ , he thought. _It’s bothersome._

“I guess he really is coming to visit then, isn’t he?” Yuuri murmured to himself. 

 

About an hour passed, and Yuuri found himself staring at boiling rice and a large skillet filled with slowly heating oil. The counter in front of him was a parade of shapes, colors and fragrances – he’d held nothing back while shopping for the groceries. Thanks to his odd memory powers, it hadn’t been too hard figuring out Victor’s credit card number, or recalling the way to the biggest store close by. In the end, this was a dream, and the whole concept of responsibility was growing more and more absurd by the second. Besides, Yuuri had been desperate for a way out of his earlier slump. 

If there was something Yuuri Katsuki excelled at, it was pulling himself back together. Despite of the wimpy impression people got of him, under the skin lied a determination powerhouse. It was who Yuuri had been in life; a person who could juggle difficulties each greater than the other. He simply couldn’t stand sitting around ignoring pressing matters, even if he was technically dead now and nothing no longer held meaning. 

In fact, it was that very absence of meaning and reason that had, as Yuuri had laid on Victor’s bed in a state of absolute despair, lit him on fire and elevated him. It had dawned on him, that in his grip was a double-edged weapon. In that moment he had felt powerful, because that realization had allowed him to let go of the fear he held onto. In a dream where things held no significance, fear had no real function. 

So, for the first time in his existence, Yuuri was stepping on truly new, unthreaded ground. He had never felt so capable, so free to enjoy himself. It was the same all-consuming sensation of blazing thrill he’d used to get while gliding on the ice, so he found himself slipping into the persona he’d taken on during his performances – going as far as to pull his, _Victor’s_ , long silvery hair into a tight ponytail, taking great care to push any rebellious strands back with gel. He’d rummaged Victor’s extensive wardrobe and clad himself in an outrageous outfit to match his new demeanor. _I’ll be the kind of Victor no one has ever seen before_ , he had thought as he’d stepped out of the room, wearing ripped jeans and a sweater gleaming with metallic accents. The dog, Makkachin, had given him a bark of disapproval.

Despite of his self-revelation, in the back of Yuuri’s mind had loomed the faintest intuition that something was terribly wrong since he had entered the dream. The emptiness of the apartment, the absence of life and warmth that had been so prevailing. The way the gaping, bare walls had held a sense of threat, like they were eager to devour any pair of eyes that stared at them too long. The dust on every surface seemed like an ever-present, quiet warning. 

However, Yuuri’s hunger had drawn his thoughts elsewhere.

Now, he was determined to cook his favorite dish to perfection. He grabbed a pork cutlet with the chop sticks he’d picked up at the store, and soaked the meat in a bowl of whisked eggs, transferring it onto a plate of flour afterwards. He was just about to repeat the procedure, when the doorbell rang a multitude of times.

_It’s actually happening_ , Yuuri thought, rushing to open the door. _Yakov wasn’t kidding about sending me a guest – that Yuri Plisetsky._ He couldn’t help but feel slightly nervous. Dream or not, it seemed like his anxiety wasn’t going to abandon him, no matter how reborn he felt.

He fumbled with the lock, and as soon as he got it unlocked, the door was yanked open by the person behind it. Yuuri almost flew forward with it.

The person, who he immediately recognized as the Yuri whom Yakov had mentioned, stumbled right in without hesitation, causing Yuuri another struggle to preserve his balance. He turned his gaze to meet a pair of piercing, emerald eyes boring into his own. They soon widened with shock.

“Victor? _What the hell_!” he spat.

Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Cued by the silence, the teenager continued. “Oh my god, you really have lost it now. I thought Yakov had been exaggerating.”

The blonde’s expression twisted into some sort of smirk, and he eyed Yuuri’s outfit with apparent interest. “It’s not all bad though. I didn’t know you have clothes that aren’t all prissy. Your new style is much more edgy, but you’re not committing to it fully. I could help you with that later,” he said, and snickered. Although the tone in the teenager’s voice was vile, something gave Yuuri the feeling he was being genuine. He grinned at the boy, ignoring the uncomfortable fact that he was talking to a person he didn’t know at all. They were technically strangers. 

He jumped a little as the teenager stiffened up suddenly. He sniffed at the air very audibly, and his expression seemed to widen to its limits. “Victor? Did you order take-out? I’m having the one without chili!”

Before Yuuri could protest, the boy sprinted to the kitchen. Then, he heard him scream.

“What the hell is going on here? Explain!” the Russian screeched. 

Yuuri walked over, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Explain!” the boy demanded again. “Since when have you known how to cook?” he questioned. Yuuri swallowed hard, raising his hands in defense. “I, uh, looked up a recipe,” he lied, grimancing with discomfort. A scorching, distrusting glare was thrown his way in return. He took the befallen silence as an opportunity to get back to his cooking project, having no intention to lengthen the conversation. 

As he lowered a richly coated pork cutlet in the oil bath, he heard the teenager approaching him. The boy stepped to his side, starting to shuffle through the groceries he’d bought, lifting and angling vegetables and reading labels on other products. “I can see why Yakov was so worried. How did you even manage to get your hands on all this stuff? _Mirin_ , really?” he commented.

Yuuri found himself smiling in return. Despite of his spiky outer shell, there was a vulnerability to the young Russian. Then, he downright laughed, when he noticed that the boy had actually tasted the mirin as well, and his face was now twisted with displease. With a wide grin on his lips, Yuuri said to him, “You should help me cook this. It’ll be done faster that way.”

The Russian gave him a questioning look, and shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “No onions though, I hate the smell.”

Yuuri gave him a nod. “I already sliced them. Could you please chop the broccoli into chunks and place them in the steamer?”

The teenager grumbled something, but complied anyway.

 

The meal was served, but at the cost of an embarrassing struggle – the Russian had marveled at Yuuri’s incapability to find dining utensils in his own home, and had been even more stunned to see him insist that the both of them say their thanks for the meal, _idatakimasu_ , before eating. After the bizarre ritual, he had dug into his food with an expert grip on a pair of chop sticks. The Russian had found himself at a total loss of words at the sight. 

Any trace of the rough start, however, had vanished as the boy had taken a bite of the food. His eyes had widened in adoration, after which he’d proceeded to practically devour the serving. He now sat at the dining table facing Yuuri, chewing contently on the cherries which had been bought for dessert.

The eating had been without much chatter, for which Yuuri was partially grateful, but his luck had run out for the final course. 

“Victor, you’re not at all yourself today. Just spit it out, I’ll listen,” the boy inquired. Yuuri tried desperately to hide the discomfort on his features, but could only assume he’d failed as the frown on the teenager’s face deepened. “Did you hear me? You’re never like this. _Start talking._ ”

Yuuri swallowed audibly at the request, fidgeting with his hands. He lowered his gaze to his lap. “Uhh.. what am I like usually then? What’s so different now?”

The teenager’s off-put reaction to him didn’t surprise him at all. Yuuri only had a superficial idea of what Victor was like, and had even embraced it as his mission to be _the kind of Victor no one has ever seen before_. Still, he couldn’t help being curious. If there was the smallest chance he could make some sense out of this dream, he would.

The teenager seemed hesitant, but spoke eventually. “Oh I don’t know, you seem like a totally different person? Maybe that’s different?” 

He fell quiet again, and Yuuri could see that he was debating on what to say next. “It’s just, you do a lot of stupid stuff, but never anything like this. I’ve never seen you so willing to… take a guest. Like, let someone into your apartment. Or cook anything. I was sure you had no idea how to cook.”

Yuuri was ready to reply, assuming the teenager was done talking, when the he added one more comment, one that intrigued Yuuri deeply: “Though I wouldn’t be surprised, you’re always so wannabe-mysterious and secretive.”

Yuuri frowned. He was reminded of the sense of alert, of looming threat, which seemed to follow him like a shadow in every corner of the apartment. He recalled the dust, the untouched furniture which was spread thin. He realized that it was likely no coincidence nor wrong accusation that Victor didn’t enjoy company in his home.

Almost as if the Russian had heard his thoughts, he added, “Your apartment is really creepy by the way. Sheesh.”

Yuuri could only bring himself to nod. He stared at the cherries on his plate, the soft gleam on their surface. “I don’t want to spend the night alone,” he said so softly that it might only have been a whisper carried on  
the wind.

But the Russian did hear, and his expression twisted. He perked up, drawing Yuuri’s attention back on him. “What?!” he spat, and Yuuri could see the hint of genuine curiosity behind his shocked face.

Yuuri cleared his throat, growing more confident with his request. An odd, indescribable gut feeling told him that there was something buried deep inside the body he controlled in this dream, inside of Victor’s body. There was something in the abyss of his existence, a sort of a barrier, which Yuuri recognized. Beyond it was something strictly prohibited from access, but deeply crucial to Victor, a fragment of his soul, a beat of his heart. 

Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to explain why, but he felt that it was his purpose in this dream to break that barrier. Whatever Victor hid from everyone, perhaps even from himself, Yuuri wanted to discover what it was. He recognized the feeling, the hidden segment of him, from when he’d been alive. However, in this dream, he had somehow gotten rid of it, opened himself. 

He wanted Victor to have the same experience. 

It dawned on him then – this really was Viktor’s apartment. Not just a satiric metaphor of Yuuri’s life, but the manifestation of whatever Victor carried inside of him. Behind the smiling face lit by the flashing of cameras, there was a hollow shell, an empty void.

_I know what it feels like_ , Yuuri thought. _And I won’t let you be consumed by it. I will open you up to your life, I will do for you what I was too late to do for myself_.

He met the Russian’s gaze, smiling. “You heard me. Stay over for tonight, I’ll rent us some movies, plus the snacks are on me.”

_You have so much to live for, Viktor Nikiforov. There is so much more to you than just the stage._

The boy’s face went from stunned to calculating to mischievous. “Hm. Whatever you want, but I’m picking the movies. And the snacks.”

“Perfect,” Yuuri smiled. “You should also give me that style advice you promised earlier. I could use a new look.”

“Oh you _bet_ on it!”

_I’m just someone passing by, but you will continue to shine, brighter than ever before._


End file.
